My first ever mission trip was to Port au Prince, Haiti, in 2012. I had no idea what to expect leading up to it, but what I imagined it would be like couldn’t have been further off.
Both of my parents had been on mission trips to Haiti multiple times before, and I had always wanted to go. My family and childhood church always had this connection to Haiti that I wanted to be apart of, so when my parents told us they thought my younger siblings and I should join them and some other people from our church on this trip, I was over the moon. I was finally going to get to go to Haiti and experience it all for myself. But as we got closer to our launch date I became more and more anxious. We were only going to be in country for 10 days but I was incredibly nervous about what I would encounter. No running water? No electricity? NO WIFI???? The 10 days out of my sweet, sweet comfort zone started to sound like hell, and I no longer wanted to go.
My mom informed me that despite everything I would be missing, like my much needed 24/7 internet connection, I was going to fall in love with Haiti. From that point on I was determined to prove her wrong. I would be miserable. I would hate it. I would never go back. And I would never love that country or it’s people.
We left on my 15th birthday, and for the first two days of the trip, I was absolutely right. I. Hated. Haiti. For starters, I discovered that day that planes make me really sick. I spent the entire first leg of our flight hugging the tiny airplane toilet. My mom doped me up on Dramamine for the second leg, which was really nice until I we landed. I was yanked out of my peaceful, drug-induced sleep only to be shoved into a busy, loud, hot airport. Then I was shoved out onto the busy, loud, hot, bright streets of Haiti. I was still out of it, thanks to the Dramamine, and I wanted to be anywhere but there. Between the crammed tap-tap ride to our place of stay and the tiny room I shared with my mom and sister, I decided it was fine if I went home right then and never came back. My first night I got no sleep, I woke up with one of the worst stomach aches I’ve ever had, and I was forced to wear a horrible skirt. (For those of you who didn’t know me back then, and are currently thinking “seriously? You were upset about a skirt?”: Know that I had a passion to set all skirts and dresses ablaze and dance around the fire.) On top of everything, I was angry. I was angry that I finally left the country and I hated it, I was angry that I had to wear a skirt every day, I was angry that I felt so horrible, I was angry that I was angry.
My parents prayed over me that morning but I felt no better. I walked around with a scowl on my face, refusing to talk to anyone if I didn’t absolutely need to. My mom dragged me over to Marjorie, an incredible Haitian woman whose family has been friends with my family and church for as long as I can remember. My mom told Marjorie about my stomach ache, so Marjorie grabbed my hand, my mom’s hand, bowed her head, and started to pray. I couldn’t understand what she was saying because she spoke in Creole, but I knew it had to be powerful. Her prayer turned into singing, and I watched as she called upon her God for me, a person she barely knew.
When she finished I thanked her and walked away. I was way too stubborn to admit that I already felt better, so I kept it a secret. But DANG IT if I didn’t feel a million times better. Haiti was suddenly a place I wanted to be.
The rest of our trip just continually got better. I played soccer with kids I didn’t know; I stood on beautiful, stony shores; I walked through neighborhoods destroyed by the earthquake in 2010 and prayed for families who had nothing; I stood in remote villages and handed out cups of rice to weeping mothers; I played card games with our neighbors even though we couldn’t understand each other’s language. And dang it, mom, you were right. I fell in love. I fell in love with the mountains. I fell in love with the markets. I fell in love with the kids who wanted to play with my hair. I fell in love with the tap-taps. I fell in love with the street art. I fell in love with the crazy objects I saw people carrying on their heads (a full mattress on someone’s head was quite a sight). I fell in love with every single smile I saw. I fell totally and completely in love, because I forgot about me. I forgot what I looked like. I forgot what a normal toilet was. I forgot what a normal shower was. I forgot about my phone. I forgot about Facebook. I forgot about my friends back home (sorry). I was so overwhelmed by this entirely different world I was in that I forgot what it was like to live in my own. I cried on the day we left. I didn’t want to leave my new friends, I didn’t want to leave the lady that yelled “fiiiiiig fig-fig-fig-fig” while she walked past our courtyard every morning, I didn’t wanna leave the make-shift basketball hoop or the glass coke bottles that tasted so much better than home or the rooster that crowed all night and sounded like it was saying “happy birthday”. I knew that this trip was only the beginning. I knew mission work was going to be a huge part of my future. I knew Haiti had engraved it’s very own spot on my heart for all eternity.
And now there are eleven more spots waiting to be taken by these eleven countries I’m about to call home for a month at a time. It’s going to be so much harder than Haiti. But it’s also going to be so much more beautiful. If 10 days in Haiti can make me fall in love, imagine what a month could do. If 10 days in Haiti can drastically shape my future, imagine what a month will do. If 10 days in Haiti can completely reroute my relationship with the Lord because I just witnessed Him in a whole new light, IMAGINE WHAT 11 MONTHS CAN DO.
I am so ready to get completely wrecked on this trip, but I’m still a little over $1,300 away from my next deadline, which is due in less than a month. Please consider partnering with me, and share in this journey that I am so blessed to be able to call my life.
God said go, so I’m going.
